A Different Shade of Grey
by the silver ferret
Summary: Some people need to remember, others just want to forget. But in a state of blatant war, fogged senses might be just as dangerous as a fogged mind — if not more.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: I am only going to say this once: I do not own anything recognisable; characters and general setting belong to JK and, unfortunately, not me. No profit is made from this fic.**

**Note: consistent with books 1-6**

**Please enjoy :)**

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**Chapter 1.**

An important thing to consider in life is whether some things are worth dying for. Love, they often say, or maybe even friendship, may it be true enough. People and things that mean a lot to you; mean even more than yourself. It is not a question often raised, not in everyday life, and years ago she could never have foreseen how important it once would become for her. The thought of once going to die had not at all been a thing to keep coming up in her head and even when it did, she'd expected herself to get a fair few more years. Now, however, at merely eighteen, death was more than just a vague possibility.

One look up at her friends told her to embrace the possibility. Maybe she'd even already done so. When does one start to accept such a thing? At the edge of war? Or before that, when they hear of a dark wizard who is ready to destroy everything? Perhaps when they become friends with someone reckless, someone known for great things, someone said dark wizard would do anything to destroy; or when they stand by their side the first time there is true danger ahead. Perhaps she'd known it all along, even before she'd set foot in Hogwarts, but was this the first moment to truly, fully accept it.

She wasn't sure. She wasn't sure she even wanted to know, either.

The room was buzzing with people. Big, _big_ day ahead. They all went by without her hearing anything that was said, for once not wanting to draw in every drop of information. Her mind was exhausted.

"Hermione?" It was Luna's melodic voice that managed to break through the haze. "We need you in the kitchen."

She nodded and followed the dreamy blonde to where a bunch of people sat round a table that was laid full with maps that had little coloured dots all over them. Blueprints. Plans of how it all should go, and backup plans for if it went wrong. So many things to go wrong.

"There's a minor change of plan," someone who's name she had trouble to remember, announced. A feeling of unease settled in Hermione's stomach. "How minor, exactly?"

"You're teaming up with Fred instead of Seamus."

She felt like exploding right in all of their faces. How was that minor? How was that not relevant? Did they all not realise that those were things that mattered? "That is not minor," she managed to choke out through clenched teeth. "You do realise different people have different skills? You realise that therefore this is a _major_ change for those involved? Don't you people _think_?" She shook her head. "How long has it been? The war? How are we all still here? By _thinking_. So _use your brains._"

Maybe it was the war finally getting to her, or maybe just the assault they were planning. She had to keep her emotions in check, she could not break down, but the idea was so very tempting. So she closed her eyes and sank down on a chair and simply gave up for a moment.

::

Fred was dead.

She'd seen it happen. The simple but terrifying flash of green light, the sickening thump of a body hitting the ground. She'd sent a jet of purple the attacker's way, but too late—there was no way to save the red-haired young man.

His body now lay on a bed in some chamber on the first floor that she was avoiding. George had thanked her for managing to take his brother back with her, but she couldn't bear being in that room with him—she couldn't bear his pain.

It was Harry who found her in the attic that evening, simply staring straight ahead, incapable of doing anything else. He said nothing while he came to sit next to her. For a while, that was all they did, sit and stare, she leaning against him, in a blissful silence.

"I brought you a sandwich."

It wasn't until then that she realised how hungry she was, and she was grateful he'd been so thoughtful as to bring something—she really didn't feel like going downstairs and bear the guilt.

It was at times like these that she fully understood the burden that lay on Harry's shoulders; someone who'd lost so much and so many, who'd seen so much more than she, and was still ready to fight without hesitation. It was at times like these that she knew he was the only one who understood.

One time, when she'd been a little girl and had known nothing about magic except for how it was explained in fairy tales, she'd gone off in the woods far ahead of her parents to the point she couldn't see them anymore—or find them. She'd gotten scared and ran around in every direction, only to probably get further away from them. She'd stopped when she'd noticed a little bird that had fallen out of its nest, tiny and lost and about to die. She'd tried to put it back on the nest, but she couldn't find it.

That was when she first saw death. Now, it was everywhere.

She hung her head.

::

Having slid half to the ground, leaning against one of her best friends, with her entire body hurting, wasn't her favourite way to wake up. She didn't particularly like the fact that her watch told her it was three in the morning either, nor that she was covered in sweat and ready to scream out her lungs—she could only just refrain herself from doing so. Just a nightmare, she told herself.

_Just_ a nightmare.

But she shuddered at the thought of it.

She had no idea why she cared so much about the boy that only appeared in her dreams. She didn't know, and Hermione hated not knowing. Still, she hadn't wanted to see Dream Boy's face behind the window, only to see it pale, see his hand reach for her—and see him disappear in a flash of green light.

* * *

They say one's first kill lays the path to more. After the first, it is supposed to go much easier.

It must be. Draco couldn't imagine how the people around him could do it so easily if it always felt like this. Or maybe that was just him.

His head felt light and foggy and he felt a pang of gut-wrenching guilt. He had killed someone. Unintentionally, but that didn't make it any less bad. In fact, in his head, it made it worse. Worse, because it had been too late before he realised who it was or what was going on. And now, one of the more tolerable Weasleys was dead.

And then there had been Hermione—_Granger_, he reminded himself—and he could only hope she wouldn't ever find out that all of it was his fault.

_All of it._ Those words held a lot more than just the twin Weasley's death, although that lay heaviest on him right now. _All of it._

What was 'all of it', anyway? Hateful looks and hurtful words? Longing, pain, secretly meeting in deserted passages after curfew, bonding, having to break that bond—however thin it had been? Or rather what had all happened after the war had truly began for them, perhaps.

No.

Well, yes, but not really. Not _just_ that_. All of it._ And now this.

He sighed deeply and let out a soft groan. _Focus, Draco, there's a war going on around you._ No time for anything else, least of all guilt. (Try feeling it when your nut-crazy aunt is angrily jumping around behind you screaming foul things and threatening to torture you, anyway. Because whatever had gone wrong, it would be his fault.)

::

There were very few things Draco Malfoy prided himself on.

Once, this had been different. As an arrogant little school boy he'd prided himself on almost everything—his looks, his name, his Slytherin traits, his pure blood, his position as Seeker in the Slytherin house team (which, for the record, he had _not_ bought his way in); just to name a few. Now, it was mostly—if not only—his ability to block out even the best Legilimens, which couldn't be more important if you lived in a house with two bloody psychopaths.

His aunt's voice was shrill and chilling to the bone—it always was, and even more so when she tried to tear down the walls he'd built so strongly. Currently, this meant she was standing right behind him, hissing words and incoherent sounds alike, like some sort of epileptic snake. "I've seen it, Draco," she told him, giving the impression she already knew everything. "The Mudblood. Why didn't you kill the filthy thing too, Draco?" She also used his name too often. He didn't like it, nor that she had now taken to slowly walking around him as if inspecting him closely. "I know why. I saw you _look._"

He was quite sure his face had been completely neutral the entire time, and he wasn't going to let that change now, so his expression remained emotionless and he didn't allow any thoughts or feelings to rush through his mind. There was, however, no use in arguing; Bellatrix Lestrange was not particularly known for decently listening to anyone. She just saw (or thought to see) what she thought the truth—which was in this case, well, _true._

He knew what was happening before he felt it—the feeling of a thousand needles stabbing into his skin, filling his veins with a burning liquid; as if the blood was boiling and skin would burst.

"Here's an idea, Draco." Suddenly she was close again, and it sent shivers through his painful body. "We will catch her alive and leave her for you to finish off, shall we?"

He didn't answer. Bad decision. The fire seared through his body again and for a moment he wondered whether he was even going to survive—or maybe he'd go mad, she'd done that before…

* * *

"How's Ginny coping?"

"I'm not—I don't really know."

"You should go check on her." She smiled. "I know it's hard, but you can't keep away from her. She needs you, you know that."

He was going to say he couldn't do it, because he was _scared._ The Boy Who Lived was able to survive Voldemort's attempts to killing him several times, but couldn't cope with something like feelings. "It's not the same as with Cho, Harry," she said quietly. "And you do want this to work, don't you?"

He nodded slowly and made his way to the door, but not before asking her once more whether she was going to be alright, and—"What about Ron?"

Yes, what about him?

"I'll go find him in a bit," she said automatically, hoping her friend wouldn't notice the lack of emotion in her voice. Ron. She _knew_ she loved him, but this was exactly the problem; she knew it, she didn't feel it—at this moment, _she didn't feel anything at all._

Her thoughts went to Harry, the person who'd only just left the room and for whom she as sure she had felt gratitude, love (although in a different way) and pure friendship only minutes ago. Now, however, her mind came to the shocking conclusion that she didn't feel a thing.

Frowning, and being too deep in thoughts to move at normal speed, she got up as to go and find Ron. It didn't surprise her that when her mind went over everyone else she knew she loved during the walk, it was all the same. She wasn't as close to anyone as she was to these two, after all.

"Ronald?"

Her legs had automatically brought her to the place she'd most likely find him, and she knew he was there without him needing to give an answer. Where else, after all, would he be? She opened the door and as she saw him there with George, on the latter's twin brother's bedside, such a wave of emotions hit her it nearly knocked her off her feet. Guilt, pain, sadness, _love._

Kneeling next to her boyfriend, she cautiously wrapped her arms around him, and as he leaned into her, she felt despite all a little spark of happiness. It was a good thing she hadn't panicked immediately—it had only been shock that had temporarily made her so numb.


	2. Chapter 2

**Well fuck, this took to long for something so short. Something with re-exams and last-minute assignments. I'm sorry.**

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**Chapter 2.**

He'd already stopped screaming. Not because there was no more pain, however. Perhaps his lungs had decided it was more important to get enough oxygen inside his body, or perhaps there just was nothing left of his voice. He didn't care. All he knew was _he had to get away from there_ if he valued his life—a question that had been raised in his head a fair few times already.

The point was, Bellatrix Lestrange had always trusted her nephew about as much as she trusted Severus Snape—not a hair in that tangled mess of hers trusted either of them. But then there had always been his mother, someone who'd do anything to keep the boy alive. But neither Narcissa nor Lucius Malfoy were still amongst them, and no one dared contradicting Bellatrix. In the end, it would result in the—unfortunate...—disposal of the last Malfoy heir, under the pretence of unproved treachery.

And then she lowered her wand, dropping him unceremoniously onto the floor, which he barely even felt. His eyes were closed; he preferred it that way, not wanting to see what was there when he opened them. If he would ever open them again.

He could not think. He had to; needed to form a plan, but his brains were having enough trouble putting mere words together, let alone trails of thoughts.

It was then that he passed out.

::

It was, once again, Harry who realised something was off. He sought her out a week after 'the incident', as she had come to call it; a week during which the Weasleys were still grieving a boy she could now barely even remember, and during which she'd come to feel increasingly lonely.

"Are you alright?"

She shrugged, unsure whether she should (or wanted to) tell him. She had experienced memory loss before, but she'd written it off as nothing—it had, after all, been no more than little things like walking into a room and forgetting what she'd come to do there. Maybe it had happened a little more frequently than it should to someone her age, but there was a lot going on around her. But maybe it had been the beginnings of _this_, maybe this wasn't just shock—perhaps _the incident_ had triggered this worsening of something that might have already been there.

"Oh, _Harry_," she whispered in exasperation, but no more than that, causing an awkward silence to fall between the two of them; for he obviously didn't know what to say to this. She didn't blame him. After all, she didn't actually know what to say herself. She wanted to tell him she just needed room to think, but she'd shut herself solitarily into her room: she'd had enough time and room, he'd say, and he'd be right. "I'm not alright," she eventually said quietly, "but I don't know exactly what's wrong, either."

There was nothing to say to that, so they fell quiet for a moment. Then—

"I have a feeling it's not about Fred." His tone wasn't accusing, but she still felt horrible that he was right. It should be about Fred, at least _partly_. She shook her head.

As much as he pretended to understand, he didn't. And she didn't ask him to. She didn't ask him to hold her, or to comfort her with words; as it was, she didn't ask him anything at all. But he stayed, and he didn't ask her to explain herself, nor did he plea for her to let them help her, and it was content that way. She just needed company, and it didn't matter that said company was silent all the while, it just mattered that someone was there.

"So how are you coping?" she asked out of nothing. He stared at her. She raised her hands in defence.

"Alright, I think. I mean—" He swallowed, "It's not easy, it's never easy… Especially since we knew him so well, you know?" (Did she?) "But…" He wasn't sure why he was suddenly telling all this. "In the beginning, when someone died it felt like a part of me died with them. But it's different now. Like I'm becoming immune to it or something."

"It's not immunity. I think your mind is shutting it out to protect itself." She looked at him, so young a man to have lost so many, and for a moment it was blissful to have forgotten. But the moment was over in an instant and it was then she started to finally cry.

Harry was at loss what to do. He'd never been good with crying women, so he decided on gently patting her back and hoping on it being over soon. Even Ron and Ginny, through their loss and pain, had noticed something was off (well, honestly, it was hard not to notice when someone shut themselves away from everyone else for a week).

"Is it Fred?" He eventually asked. "I mean, you know it's not your fault, right? No one had expected this, and there was no way you could've saved him and have the both of you get out alive…"

"It's not- not that."

"Then what is it? Hermione, I'm _worried_. This isn't like you at all—"

"I forgot." Her voice was barely a whisper, but he heard it; and didn't understand.

"Forgot what? What this is about?" He started sounding indignant, something that always happened when he didn't understand. Harry wasn't known as the most patient of people, but he was trying.

She swallowed, obviously not happy to explain, and when she did her voice was barely a whisper and he wondered whether he'd even heard right. "Fred," she said, scarily quiet. "I forgot about Fred."

"_What_?"

"I know I said it wasn't about him." The lump that had been in her throat for days, was thickening. "But that is exactly the point, isn't it?"

"But you can't just _forget_ about someone that easily!" Harry exclaimed indignantly.

"I know that!" She sounded less feeble now that it was out. "Do you think I don't feel guilty enough about it? I don't need you telling me off, okay!" Didn't he ever _try_ to understand? Eventually people would forget, not the person, but the pain attached to the loss. They would forget the little things, like the tone of one's voice. But it was supposed to happen gradually, and it _hurt_ to forget this quickly. And she hadn't even said anything about other details slipping away yet, but then maybe that might not be the biggest problem—there had to be _something_ about it in those books she'd found. She just had to take some time off…

_As if you can 'take some time off' in a war._

They'd had a week. A full week. The least she could deduce from this was that her time was running out; that, or something had gone very, very wrong.

"Lupin's coming over tonight."

Oh well.

"Any news? New plans?" She sounded weary all of a sudden, and felt as if she'd just run a marathon. She wasn't up for anything new, but then who was? Who ever was?

"Not that I know of."

Hermione closed her eyes and sighed. She was so tired, so sick of not being able to sleep to get some more research done, to find nothing and fall asleep with her head onto the books only to weak up sweaty and panicking for reasons and people unknown. So tired. "Good."

Her mind went blank and her eyes fell shut, and Harry sighed, picking her up and laying her back on her bed. Whatever Remus Lupin was going to have to say tonight, the prospects of the meeting were not good.


End file.
